


When I Think About You

by countessrivers



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Blood Kink, M/M, Masturbation, Snooping, and a disregard for personal boundaries, and like a lot of blood in general, minor choking kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-28 03:34:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17779805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/countessrivers/pseuds/countessrivers
Summary: Jeremiah, (almost) alone in Wayne Manor, with some time, and some needs, to kill.Post 5x05





	When I Think About You

**Author's Note:**

> So happy Valentines Day everyone. Here's Jeremiah being gross.

It takes Jeremiah a while to pull his eyes away from his creations. They’re perfect, absolutely perfect, and he knows, he _knows_ , that Bruce is going to love them. The doctor whom he had entrusted with his vision is still hovering anxiously, though Jeremiah cannot understand why he’s so nervous; the man has done an excellent job, after all. The skittish fidgeting is already starting to get on his nerves, but he’s in no real hurry to dispose of the man just yet.

Ecco sidles up beside him, leaning in close and tipping her head onto his shoulder.

“Happy boss?” she asks, looking up at him.

He pats her on the cheek.

“You have no idea.”

And he is happy. Things are looking up.

He shakes Ecco off his shoulder and steps away, pulling off his gloves as he does so. He tucks them into a pocket of his coat before shedding that too, laying it over the back of the closest chair. He rolls his shoulders back, stretching out his neck as he takes in a deep breath. The movement pulls at his wounds, and he can’t help grimacing ever so slightly at the pain. He huffs out a breath, brushing past it as he starts to wander around the room. The windows are open, a gentle breeze sending the curtains swaying. The fresh air keeps the room from feeling too stuffy, and it’s possible that the windows have been open since the last time Jeremiah set foot in this room, all those months ago.

Speaking of.

Jeremiah’s eyes catch on something on the floor. Had the floor been bare it might have been easy to miss, might have blended into the wood in the dark, but against the patterned rug, the blood stands out. There’s a lot of it, left to soak into the no doubt expensive rug and staining it reddish-brown.

He hadn’t been able to fully appreciate it at the time, too busy watching Bruce and having his face punched in, but now, he has a chance to really take in the sight of Selina Kyle’s spilt blood. The coffee table she had collapsed against has been moved aside, pushed up against the wall, but he bets there’s blood on that too.

There had been blood on Bruce’s hands.

Jeremiah’s certain he’s never hated anyone quite as much as he hates Selina Kyle. His feelings toward his family have always been complicated – he loved them in equal measure to how much he hated them, particularly Jerome (especially Jerome) - and he’s admired and appreciated and disliked his fair share of individuals over the years, but overall, he just hadn’t cared enough about people individually to, well, care.

But Selina Kyle is different, and the sight of her blood on the ground is pleasing, borderline pleasurable to see.

He sometimes wonders if it would have been better to have killed her then and there, get it over with, and there is certainly something deeply satisfying about the thought. But he had made the choice to let her live, just as he had made the choice to let her stab him, and aside from a few necessary inconveniences, things are working out perfectly.

And he now has some time to kill.

“Stay here,” he says to Ecco, picking up his lantern and pausing just long enough to take note of her enthusiastic nodding before leaving the room.

He runs his hand along the walls as he makes his way down the hallway. There’s a fine layer of dust coating the floors and furniture in spots, and a stillness in the air that speaks of the manor’s months-long abandonment. There’s no evidence that anyone else has been here since he was dragged out by the GCPD and Selina Kyle was hustled into an ambulance. From what Jeremiah can gather, it’s not exactly a secret to the outside world that Bruce is trapped in the city, so it is a little odd that no one has at least come by to investigate (he _has_ been hearing things about some kind of government intervention, but not much). He shouldn’t complain though, as in the end it’s all the better for him. And, given the property’s isolated location, it means they don’t have to worry too much about attracting unwanted attention while they are here.

Aside from one occasion where a storm had required him to stay the night, Jeremiah had spent most of his visits to Wayne Manor in the study. But Bruce had given him a tour the first time, had shown him around the dozen or so bedrooms, with at least half as many bathrooms, the library, the conservatory, the two reception areas, the dining room, the pool, the garage, and the expansive grounds (the bat-infested cavern he had just crawled out of had come later), so Jeremiah thinks he has a pretty solid idea of where it was he was going, even if he hadn’t already memorised the official city plans.

He decides to head towards the kitchen first, and when he pushes open the swinging door he notices immediately the blood on the floor. It too has dried brown, having been left there so long. He assumes it belongs to the butler, evidence of the time he had sent his soldiers to collect the man while the GCPD scrambled to reclaim their house and he led Bruce on a dizzying chase through the cemetery. Snaking out from the behind the kitchen island is even more blood, and it doesn’t surprise him that the man had put up a fight. There’s a cleaning cloth siting on the counter, alongside a gun, and Jeremiah figures no one had gotten the chance to clean up before he dropped in.

The sight of the blood doesn’t give him quite the thrill that seeing _hers_ did, but there’s a part of him that’s sated by it all the same.

Placing his lantern down on the counter, he picks up the gun and checks the magazine to find six bullets still inside. He makes a note to himself to remember to come back through and grab it. They’re not expecting anyone just yet, but it always pays to be on one's guard. Plus, leaving a perfectly functioning gun just lying around seems wasteful.

The rest of the kitchen appears orderly enough. The sink is clear of any unwashed dishes or glass ware, utensils and attachments are packed away where they presumably belong, and an investigation of the walk-in pantry reveals an almost fully stocked store. There is the slightest odor coming from the fridge, but after over three months of neglect and interrupted power, rotting food is to be expected. If need be, there’s plenty of non-perishable items in the pantry, and he knows there’s a cellar somewhere, along with whatever a billionaire’s version of a liquor cabinet is.

Jeremiah’s not particularly hungry himself, or thirsty for that matter, so he has no desire to take anything just yet, but his eyes do catch on the knife block sitting by the sink. He makes another mental note to pinch a few when he comes back for the gun. He’s not sure where his have ended up, but he feels a little too light on weapons to be comfortable, and he’s sure the knives will be wonderfully sharp.

Exiting the kitchen, Jeremiah makes a loop back to the entrance hall and heads up to the second floor. The landing is dark, the moonlight spilling through the windows and throwing dancing shadows up the walls, but he can still see well enough to make out the paintings and portraits that line the main hall as he walks. There are photos too, hanging on the walls and set up on the tables and sideboards. His eyes catch on one, Thomas and Martha, with a young Bruce smiling between them.

Jeremiah has never begrudged Bruce his happy childhood, loving, devoted parents and all. His own had been so full of fear and suspicion. Desperation to get out, for more, for _better_. And even when he _had_ gotten out, there had still been so much wasted time, running and hiding and being afraid. He’s free now, free in so many ways, but there’s still a part of him that wonders how things might have turned out, had the Valeskas as a whole not been who they were. (Are? He is the last one standing after all).

But Bruce had had that stability, that certainty of a bright, shining future from the moment he was born. He’d had that love, that devotion that Jeremiah can admit he has always craved, and then he’d lost it. In one night the foundations of Bruce’s entire world had fallen away and Jeremiah knows that it wounded him far more deeply that Bruce himself can probably ever admit. Which is why Jeremiah is doing what he is doing. Because Bruce deserves peace, particularly in this regard. He deserves happiness. Freedom.

Stepping away from the photo, Jeremiah continues down the hallway. He sticks his head into a handful of rooms, and wanders around the library for a few minutes, picking books off the shelves and trying to decide if each one might be something Bruce would enjoy reading, but he really has one, specific destination in mind.

Jeremiah knows exactly which room belongs to Bruce. He’s never been inside, but Bruce had pointed it out the night he had stayed, on the way to directing Jeremiah to one of the spare bedrooms. He had lain awake that night for far too long, seized by the thought of Bruce, in bed, just down the hall.

When he reaches the room, he finds the door ajar. Pushing it open fully, he pauses in the doorway for a moment, not in any sort of deference to privacy, or to the concept of personal space, but more because, well, it’s Bruce’s bedroom. It’s something he’s thought about. A lot, if he’s being honest, starting with the night he stayed.

Bruce had come to the bunker mid-morning for the testing of the generators and hadn’t returned until late the next night, when he had headed straight to the study, which means that Jeremiah is likely the only person to set foot in this room since Bruce left.

The heavy curtains are still pushed open, allowing moonlight to fill the room. Jeremiah can see well enough with the ambient lighting, but even so, he sets down his lantern and flicks the light switch next to the door, pleased, though briefly blinded, when after a moment, the overhead light flickers on. The dimmer switch appears to be in working order as well, so he sets the lighting to a more comfortable level, and steps properly into the room.

On the surface the room fits in with the décor of the rest of the manor, particularly the other bedrooms, but looking closely, he can see the marks Bruce has made on it over however many years he’s claimed the room as his own. There are books, some old and new, in stacks on the floor, papers and files covering the desk in the corner, and photo frames, surrounded by everyday bits and pieces, set up on both bedside tables. Even the few pieces of art filling out the room feel more like Bruce than almost anything else in the house. There’s even clothing, laid out over the armchair by the door. On closer inspection they look clean, and Jeremiah can’t help but wonder if they were outfits discarded by Bruce as he dressed for their meeting.

There are two sets of doors along one of the walls, and crossing the room, he opens one to find an almost obscenely large walk-in closet. The first thought that strikes him is that there’s a lot of black, and while Jeremiah won’t deny that the shade more than suits him, he still thinks it wouldn’t kill Bruce to branch out a bit more in the colour department.

More red, perhaps.

He runs a hand along the racks, feeling at all the rich, quality fabric as the clothing switches from coats to jackets to shirts to pants, with rows of shoes lined up underneath. Bruce’s clothes aren’t quite organised by colour (not enough colour in there to do so, although he does spy a beautiful burgundy coat that he’s never seen Bruce wear), but rather by length and season; heavy coats and warm wool suits towards one end, lighter ones towards the other.

Against one wall is a large wooden dresser, the contents of which are just as specifically organised as the rest of the closet. Draws of sweaters, workout wear, socks, jeans, pajamas, _underwear_ , with each piece folded neatly and in its proper place. A part of Jeremiah has the almost unbearable urge to mess it all up. To just upend draws and pull things off hangers and just _ruin_ the order around him. But that would be rude and unnecessary and so he tamps down the urge.

(He’s most certainly _not_ also thinking about taking something.)

In the bottom draw he finds a more eclectic mix of clothing. There are sweaters, a few coats, more than a handful of shirts and pants, ties, gloves, vests, in variety of different colours. They’re all folded perfectly, and lain out neatly, but it takes Jeremiah a while to work out what he’s looking at. It clicks when he notices the blood staining the front of a thick, cream, turtleneck sweater. There’s no hole, so it’s unlikely to be Bruce’s blood, and it’s laying on top of a similarly stained caramel coat. He spots another sweater, this time in black, and frowns at the streaks of what he _knows_ is white face paint across the neck. There’s more; a shirt with a blood-stained collar, a long black coat with a singed hem, a pair of gloves covered in what looks to be dust, but he has a feeling isn’t. Other pieces with no visible damage, but he knows that are somehow tainted all the same. Jeremiah bets that if he digs into the draw deep enough, he’ll find a twelve-year old’s coat with blood splattered cuffs, and a pair of pants with blood stained knees. Maybe even a funeral suit.

He remembers the coat, the jacket, the button up shirt Bruce had been wearing on their trip to the graveyard, the ones he’d still been wearing when they watched the bridges blow. The outfit is probably folded away neatly under some cot in the middle of the GCPD precinct, but Jeremiah wonders if it will ever end up here, should Bruce be given the chance to return.

Closing the draw and standing back up, he exists the closet, noting the other door that he assumes leads to an en-suite of some sort. That in and of itself brings up a whole new set of images. Like Bruce changing. Bruce in the shower. Bruce coming out of the shower, still wet, water dripping down his body as he bends to dry himself. The thought has Jeremiah stirring in his pants, and his fingers twitch with the need to reach out and touch the phantom image. Bruce is a presence in his room. Not just the scent of him, left on his clothing and hanging in the air itself, but the impression he has left on the fabric of the space itself. He had felt it passing through the cave, that mark of Bruce’s presence as he passed the computers and the note boards and the punching bag hanging from the ceiling, bats chattering overhead. Jeremiah could feel him there, as he feels him here, and it leaves him feeling a little light headed, to be so close.

Pulling off his jacket, he throws it onto the armchair by the door, on top of the clothes Bruce had left there, before he turns towards the bed.

The bed sits in the centre of the room, headboard flush against the wall. Approaching, Jeremiah brushes his fingers gently across the navy quilt. It’s a piece of furniture, but he can’t help feeling a sense of something like reverence. This is where Bruce slept. Where he dreamt. The bed is made, hospital-corner neat, with the pillows stacked precisely. He can see the white of the sheets beneath the bedspread, and again, he has the urge to mess it up. To leave a mark. His mark.

He is, however, not an animal, so he toes his shoes off before laying down.

It’s as soft, as comfortable as he was expecting. Jeremiah had never really been one for overly indulging in luxury, even after leaving the circus, and his bed back in the bunker had been perfectly passable, but if this is what legitimate quality feels like, he’d happily sleep in a bed like this forever. With or without Bruce himself.

It does help that he’s spent the last few nights seriously injured, being dragged through a tunnel on a makeshift pallet.

And of course his preference would be ‘with Bruce’.

He takes a moment to just lay there, sinking into the bed and breathing in deeply. He can smell Bruce, strongest on the pillow beneath his head, but his scent is everywhere. He turns his head into the bedding and inhales deeply. He doesn’t reach for his cock, but he feels it start to harden anyway.

Shifting his legs apart a little, Jeremiah flips his tie out of the way and pulls his shirt loose from his pants. He closes his eyes and forces himself to breathe evenly as he slowly undoes the buttons on his shirt. He doesn’t open it all the way, just enough to expose his stomach He can’t remember precisely how many times the knife had slid home, but opening his eyes and looking down, it’s clear that it was enough times to leave his torso a mess of bandages and stitches.

Some of the blows appear to have only glanced across his flesh, leaving behind shallow slices that could be held together with butterfly strips. Others, like the first one, had sunk in much, much deeper, and had Ecco not been there, had Jeremiah been anything less than what he is, he knows he almost certainly would have bled out. Which, despite knowing the risks when he decided it had to happen at all, is unacceptable.

Although, aside from the unwelcome, albeit unfortunately necessary presence of a certain knife-wielding bitch, there were worse sights to go out on.

The brief glimpse he had gotten of Bruce before sliding into unconsciousness hadn’t been anywhere near enough to appease the constant, gnawing hunger that’s been eating away at him since the moment he first laid eyes on him, but after months of distance, after months of not being able to _touch_ , having Bruce so close, feeling the weight of his gaze on him again, had almost felt like enough.

Jeremiah pulls at the dressing covering one of the deeper wounds. It sits almost in the center of his stomach, just below his ribs, and he’s fairly certain it was the first blow struck. The stitches holding it together are black, unsightly in a fascinating sort of way. Not the neatest, but Ecco had done a decent enough job.

He remembers going into the police station to collect Jerome’s body. He remembers running his fingers along the stitching decorating his brother’s corpse, wanting to pick at the stitches just as much as he had wanted to turn away and vomit into the nearest trash can.

He digs his nails into his own stitches, and it doesn’t take much for the blood to begin welling. He watches it bead and roll over his stomach, dripping down his side and falling onto the bed. The red is brilliant against the white of his skin, and the sting of pain as he digs his fingers in again has his eyes fluttering closed.

Eyes still closed, Jeremiah brings his bloodied fingers to his mouth, swiping his tongue over them. He tilts his head back and slides them between his lips, working to catch every trace. It tastes better than the blood he had licked off the razor back in the tunnel, better than what he sometimes catches on Ecco’s tongue.

He thinks Bruce would taste even more divine.

He pulls his fingers from his mouth but leaves them resting against his lips as he stares up at the ceiling. His other hand slides down between his legs, rubbing at his cock as he pictures Bruce spread out beneath him.

Jeremiah imagines taking his razor to Bruce’s neck, his side, his hip, the pale, fragile skin of his inner thigh, everywhere. He imagines cutting, not deep, just enough to get the blood flowing, and then bending down to taste. To drink. He bites down on his fingers and squeezes his cock through his pants as he imagines the sounds Bruce would make. He can hear them, the little moans, the gasps, the hisses of pleasure/pain that he’d try to swallow down, but that Jeremiah knows he can pull loose should he ever be given the chance.

He wants to open up his own veins and offer them to Bruce. He imagines Bruce’s mouth on him, his pink tongue, swiping along the cuts as they move together. The prick of nails and blooming black bruises as Bruce holds him down, as Jeremiah holds him to him. He wants Bruce to bite, to glut himself on Jeremiah’s blood. He wants Bruce to bare the fangs that he knows are there, to stop hiding, stop pretending, stop punishing himself, stop holding himself back, and just take what he wants.

He wants Bruce to rip his throat out with his teeth.

Jeremiah fumbles with both hands at his belt, getting it open before pulling at the button and zipper on his pants. He pushes his pants down only as far as necessary to get at his cock, and the feeling of skin on skin is glorious. He licks his palm and starts stroking, conjuring the image of Bruce on his back, Jeremiah straddling his hips.

He would shift a bit, to get comfortable, and feel Bruce’s cock pressing against his ass. He’d brush his fingers across Bruce’s face, along his cheek, up his jaw, and then across his lips, dragging at that plump lower lip with his thumb, before he slipped them inside. Two fingers, maybe three.

He can see it. Bruce, bright eyes almost black with arousal, looking up at him as he wrapped his lips around his fingers, getting them wet. The warmth of his mouth, his tongue, the slightest graze of teeth. The way he would choke when Jeremiah pushed his fingers just a little too far towards the back of his throat.

He'd eventually pull his fingers out, taking a moment to enjoy the sight of Bruce’s flushed face and slick, swollen mouth as he rolled his hips down, chasing the pressure and friction. He’d urge Bruce to lift his own hips up and spread his legs so he could settle between them as he dragged his wet fingers down his chest. He’d slide his hand under him, fingers slipping back between his cheeks, teasing at his hole, circling it, pressing at it, following when Bruce’s hips fucked up off the bed, but not giving more, not until Bruce said “please”.

Neither of them would want it gentle, so he’d lean over Bruce, hovering above him so he could drink in every little gasp and twitch and moan as he pushed his fingers right in. He can see it, the way Bruce’s back would arch at the feeling of having something inside him, head thrown back and mouth falling open. Jeremiah would lean down, capture his mouth and slip his tongue inside even as he fucked his fingers into him again and again.

When Bruce was begging, pleading, sobbing for more, Jeremiah would pull his fingers out and replace them with his cock. Bruce would be so tight. Tight enough that Jeremiah would have to go slow, ease his way inside him, at least at first. But before long, Bruce would be wrapping his legs around Jeremiah’s waist, meeting each thrust, clawing and raking his nails down his back, desperate for more.

Bruce might bite him; his tongue, his lip, either one. Accidently or on purpose it doesn’t really matter. The blood would spill between them, and they’d chase the taste into each other's mouths.

The images, the very real taste of his own blood on his tongue has Jeremiah fucking up into his hand. His cock is leaking precum, he can practically feel Bruce beneath him, but it isn’t quite enough. He needs more.

Letting loose a frustrated groan, Jeremiah lets go of his cock and rolls over onto his hands and knees. He spreads his legs as much as he can with his pants still around his thighs, shifting to keep his balance on the bed and resting his head down on his forearm. He rolls his hips down experimentally, and his cock brushing against the soft bedspread feels so good that he does it again. And again. Soon enough he’s fucking into the bed, hips thrusting down as he pants open-mouthed into his arm. He knows he’s smearing makeup on his shirt, on the bed when he rubs his face into the pillow, but he hardly cares.

His free hand grasps around him blindly, and his fingers brush over something surprisingly cold and sharp, tucked beneath the pillows. He closes his hand around it and lets out a hiss as it slices into him. It stings exquisitely, skin pulling with every twitch of his hand, and he can’t help but laugh as he stills his hips, turning his head just enough to stare at the bloody cut.

Oh, that beautiful, wonderful, paranoid boy. Sleeping with a knife under the pillow.

He sticks his hand back under the pillow to pull the knife out. It’s only a small blade, but still decidedly sharp, its edge coloured with Jeremiah’s blood. He rubs a thumb along the flat edge, fingerprints marring the glinting metal, before stretching out to put it down on the bedside table. He’ll take it with him and return it to Bruce. He’s eager to see what Bruce might do with it, with Jeremiah potentially within arm’s reach.

Jeremiah shifts further up on his knees and brings his hand back down to his cock. Blood is far from the best lubricant, but his ministrations thus far have left him hard enough that there’s more than enough precum to ease the way.

Not that he’s ever really enjoyed it without a little roughness.

His mind jumps back, as it always seems to do, to Bruce.

Bruce with a knife in his hand.

Jeremiah thinks about Bruce’s hands a lot. They’re far more calloused and scarred than one might expect from a young billionaire, but there’s still an elegance to them. Long fingers that Jeremiah has seen work over the most delicate of machinery, that have reached out to offer comfort and consolation, still with strength enough to raise bruises.

The image of Bruce holding a knife to Jeremiah’s throat is one that sends shivers down his spine. He’d press into it, split his own skin and offer himself up to Bruce in whatever way he’d have him.

Or maybe, even better, Bruce’s hands around his neck, squeezing as he moved above him, so tight around Jeremiah’s cock.

“Fuck,” Jeremiah says to himself, squeezing his hand as he strokes up and down, trying to mimic how it might feel to be inside Bruce. He knows his hand is a cheap, pale imitation of what the real thing would feel like, but it’s the closest he’s going to get for now.

He wouldn’t try to push Bruce off, wouldn’t claw at his hands, trying to pull them away from his neck, desperate for air. He’d tilt his head back, give Bruce a better angle as he thrust his hips up, fucking into him harder with every stroke.

Would Bruce’s strength falter, the closer he got to orgasm? Would Jeremiah have to lend a hand, so to speak, and hold Bruce’s hands down around his own neck? Or would he forget himself as he lost control? Would he forget his strength, forget where he was, who he was with, forget just how long a human can go without oxygen?

(Though who’s to say he would forget anything at all, even when lost in bliss. Wasn’t that half the appeal?)

God, he wants him.

He wants Bruce so badly. He wants him beside him, under him, above him, around him, in him. Just...with him. He needs it, more than he has ever needed anything, and he feels like sooner or later the want is going to burn him all up until there’s nothing left.

Jeremiah bows his head and sinks his teeth into the pillow, suffocating himself with the smell of Bruce as he moves his hand faster and faster. He can feel his stitches pulling with every flex of his stomach muscles, and all the movement has more than likely opened up more of his wounds. He doesn’t care, or rather, that just makes it better. The ache, the sharp pain from the jagged gashes, the blood he can feel dripping onto the bed, onto his hand, his cock, just pulls him higher and higher.

He comes, fucking his own hand, half covered in blood and head buried in a pillow that smells like Bruce.

**Author's Note:**

> I did want to get this out before the newest episode, but to be fair, it's not like they could actually contradict it, unless they explicitly said the Jeremiah definitely didn't masturbate in Bruce's bed, but even then I'd be like "....nah, don't believe you. He totally did." Because he totally did.
> 
> [Tumblr](http://countessrivers.tumblr.com/) is pretty much the only other place I exist.


End file.
